


Sleep the Minutes Away

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Body Worship, Consensual Sex, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Group Sex, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Multiple Partners, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pansexual Character, Power Play, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Smoking, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 03:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: Life is short, people (and ghouls) are hot, and the Courier's pretty sure her lifespan has been severely docked. She decides to make the best possible use of her time.





	Sleep the Minutes Away

**Author's Note:**

> Working title: The Courier burns her way through the Mojave
> 
> No, seriously, I'm so unaccustomed to writing porn that it's a little bit incredible. Like, put my sorry ass in a convent because I blush if someone says 'boobs' too loudly in a room. Now I'm over here churning out a chronicle of my Courier's attempts to sleep with everyone that she has a semi-close relationship with. Oh well.
> 
> So her name is Lizzie Holliday (born Adelita Espinosa). She's tiny and angry. She's a doctor most of the time, and she's pansexual as all hell. [Here she is](http://imgur.com/a/nQx4X) drawn by the most incredible [Jara](http://jara257.tumblr.com/). Now you have a fun mental image of her.
> 
> Now go read about her sleeping with like, everyone. 
> 
> I'm gonna go pray or eat some hummus or something.

At the moment, Lizzie Holliday thinks that there’s very few words in the English language that rhyme with _regret_. At least, there’s very few words that she can immediately think of when she hooks her thumbs into the beltloops of her merc fatigues and shifts her hands right-left-right-left with an awfully damning rhythm until they’re down to her knees.  
  
_Kismet,_ she thinks. _Like fate, destiny. All this is just kismet._ She doesn’t know where that word even came from, like tons of words from the Old World that have just sort of lost their etymology at some point when all the bombs made linguistics a null and void kind of study. Bombs and fire and radiation and all the monsters and disaster that come with it. _Ain’t that just kismet?_  
  
She’s well aware of Benny’s eyes on her, devouring every inch of her skin that she’s willing to reveal to him. She doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s looking at the curve of her spine, the way the lights of the presidential suite add a hazy, smoky glow to her skin. He makes this satisfied little grunt when her fatigues are on the floor, and when she finally looks at him, stomach burning, she can see the absolute feralness in his eyes. _High-roller, huh?_ _No, he’s all tribal._ _You can put a suit on a Great Khan but that doesn’t make him any less of a Khan at all._  
  
This is a man who might have been used to getting his way once. Right now, he might even think he still is. He might be thinking that his luck is still all gold and platinum, that a girl rising from the dead is a great sign. All this just because she gave him a half-lidded come-hither look after she scared the ever loving rads out of him and played coy on behalf of the bullet casings that may or may not be still rattling around in her skull.  
  
_Oh, coquette!_ Another rhyme. _A relentless flirt._  
  
She’s down to her panties and tank top now, having not bothered to change into anything more becoming of a ranked casino on the Strip. After all, it wouldn’t do much good if she wore one of her best outfits only to have the thing covered in blood and heaven only knows what else before the day was done. No amount of detergent and Abraxo could make her favorite park stroller dresses clean again. Then again, she wasn’t expecting to crawl onto the man who executed her and rut against him like a molerat in heat.  
  
That’s... not the best image. Ew, actually.  
  
_Fishnet. Good rhyme, and maybe something I should invest in._ Or maybe not. Lizzie doesn’t feel especially flirty or seductive right now, still a little dirt-streaked from her most recent trek across the Mojave. She may have some blood under her blunt fingernails from a bad run-in with a Powder Ganger. And she’s aware that aside from a cursory scrub-down to get the ash out of her hair outside of Nipton, she hasn’t properly bathed in almost a week. Maybe it’s the lead in her brain still floating around and making her synapses act up, but she’s been more focused on putting Benny in his own shallow grave rather than prettying herself up for a soiree on the Strip.  
  
He’s got his stupid checkered jacket off and on the floor, and his eyes roll up and down. “ _Damn_ , baby,” he says. One calloused hand is on her left hip, the pad of his thumb running along the curve, as appreciatively as an Old World art critic. “Maybe I should have given you a second look before I-- ah, forget it.”  
  
_Oh, honey,_ she wants to say. _The only things you had your eyes on were the chip and the lights in the distance._ But she shuts herself up by kissing him, tasting whiskey and cigarettes on his tongue. His other hand runs through her hair. It’s cut shorter than she remembers, probably by Doc Mitchell after some good ol’ fashioned Mojave brain surgery. It brushes the nape of her neck now, and in a few weeks, she’ll probably have some stress-dyed gray among the black. It might make her look a little more regal, or something.  
  
_Brunette!_ _Ooh, good one._ Her father was a brunette, she remembers. Maybe it’s not the best time to recall the illustrious Dr. Espinosa, seeing as how her hips are rolling against the thin, worn fabric of Benny’s trousers. Then again, it kind of helps take her mind off the situation at hand, drawing her out of her own body for a second while she keeps up the illusion that she’s well and truly enjoying foreplay with the guy who shot her right into a ditch. One thing she remembers with an unusual amount of clarity is the woman on the handle of Benny’s pistol. Her father had a little silver pendant of the same woman, kept on a rusty chain that he hid at the bottom of his medical kit.  
  
_She’s an old world goddess, I think,_ he told her when she asked. _She had a child without ever having been with a man._  
  
Lizzie can’t say that for herself, although she’s never had a kid before. The frequent bouts of cooking herself in radiation with a fine marinade of the occasional Med-X is probably going to keep that an ongoing trend.  
  
Benny says something to her, and all she registers is that he sounds breathless. She blinks slowly before refocusing on him. “Huh?”  
  
He frowns, but only for a second before smirking and pressing his thumbs against the hollows of her hipbones. “You still with me, baby? Don’t want you drifting off before the main event, hey?”  
  
_Roulette_. Man, how did she miss _that_ one? It’s everywhere she looks these days; the tower of the Lucky 38, the tables upon tables in all the different casinos, and the whole idea that she’s just caught in this big cosmos-sized wheel that someone else is spinning. She could get all metaphorical for hours, but he’s rolling his hips between her thighs and she sighs through her nose. He’s definitely a straight-to-the-point type.  
  
She’ll allow herself one solid metaphor. Call it rumination, but her pit stop at the 188 made all the little wheels start turning. The kid under the overpass told her that she was caught in a gamble that might pay off. As for what all that cryptic business was about, Lizzie’s still not entirely sure. It’s not as if she picked the courier job up with the full expectation that she was doing to be double-tapped, tossed in a sorry excuse for a grave, and wake up to forcefully elbow her way into New Vegas politics. _Hazards,_ they said. _Occupational hazards. Expect anything._  
  
Then again, the kid also said the Mojave was going to be covered in a rain of blood or something like that.  
  
Benny mutters something underneath her, and his fingers move up and up, under the hem of her tank top and up the indent of her waist. The flesh there isn’t as soft as it once was. Mojave living is _hard_ , and her musculature is at least something worth boasting. He seems to appreciate it, although she doesn’t appreciate _that._  
  
“Hate to say it, girlie, but you are stacked like a Gomorrah girl,” he says, grinning in a way that’s outright lewd.  
  
Lizzie rolls her eyes. Not every day your mortal nemesis compares you to a showgirl, but she’s not exactly in this for the thrill of the frolic. In fact, there’s half a dozen people she’d rather shack up with if she wasn’t so bent on tearing Benny’s throat out and getting close enough to do it personally. And she’s not super thrilled that said targeted enemy seems to have declared the current time to be Lizzie’s Breasts Appreciation Hour.  
  
He’s a talker, though. Lizzie Holliday is well-versed in the art of shutting people up. She kisses him again, _hard_ , hard enough to draw blood along the ridge of her bottom row of teeth. Benny grunts against her, but he _loves_ it. That much is obvious between the way his right hand grips her left breast, the shuddering breath through his nose, and the hard line of his dick pressed against her thigh.  
  
_Uuuugh,_ groans her inner monologue.  
  
“ _Aaaah_ ,” groans Benny when she finally lets him up for air. She sees red beading up on his bottom lip, and a streak of it near the corner of his mouth. His perfectly-chiseled hair is mussed. “Baby, you bite like a shark,” he compliments.  
  
She’s never actually seen a shark before, but she’s heard plenty about them. “ _Ya know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe. Scarlet billows start to spread_ ,” she sings to him. Her singing is pretty rough and never meant for the Tops stage, but she gets a wry laugh out of him and a pair of raised eyebrows.  
  
“I’ve had girls singin’ in bed before, but not like this,” he replies.  
  
He doesn’t know the song, and Lizzie doesn’t care. She just braces herself, one hand on each side of his head, keeping her focus on the blood on his mouth, the wild lust in his eyes, and the haphazard look of the rest of him. He wants this, and he’s not acting like he’s got a girl a week coming through his suite like they’re going through a revolving door. He might act like that on the floor of the Tops, cigarette between his fingers of one hand and the platinum chip dancing across his knuckles of the other. All it takes is a girl coming back from the dead to get him to this point, desperately turned on.  
  
_Reset._ That’s another good word, and frighteningly applicable. A full life reset, a moment in time that she wishes that she could turn off and turn back on. Lizzie wishes she could do that now, or that she could summon the wherewithal to just get out of bed, draw her 10mm out of her bag, and end it the way she probably should have when she had the chance down on the casino floor.  
  
Without thinking, she grinds against him and she actually manages to draw a, “Oh, _fuck,_ ” out of him. His eyes go wide and he looks delighted and surprised at the same time. He doesn’t need a prompt to angle her upright with his knees and wiggle his trousers the rest of the way down. She glances down and sees that he’s wearing plain briefs, the elastic completely shot, and Lizzie finds herself a little surprised that they’re not checkered as well.  
  
His hands to back up to her tank top, his expression as content as a deathclaw on a bighorner carcass. “You gonna keep those charlies hidden the whole time or...?”  
  
“Or,” she picks, gently urging his hands down. _Charlies,_ seriously? “That’s not what matters, right?”  
  
He shrugs with one shoulder, his grin quirked. “Depends on who you ask, baby.”  
  
In reply, she rolls her hips again and he sounds like he hiccups. There’s a spot between his brow that pinches, but he’s still smiling. “Baby, you’re absolutely killing me.”  
  
_Understatement,_ she thinks. As she leans forward to work her underwear down, her mind tries harder than ever to crawl away from her body. _Shit, okay, how about... forget. Like, I really want to forget that any of this happened._  
  
So it turns out a lot of words rhyme with _regret._  
  
His briefs are off in the second it takes for her panties to land on the floor. None of this has any finesse to it. He’s not acting like some high-betting socialite with New Vegas in the palm of his hand. This is not the same man who had her on her knees in Goodsprings, the muzzle of his pistol level with her forehead. This is a man completely unravelled and desperate, and she’d think it was pathetic if she wasn’t so focused on trying not to think of it at all.  
  
She tries to put other people in his place so that it isn’t Benny who thrusts into her. In a distant voice that sounds like it’s coming from one room over, she thinks he comments on how tight she is, and all she can think is _no shit, genius._ But she keeps moving with him, gasping when it seems right, eyes screwed shut so it looks like pleasure. She puts Boone in his place, and that kind of works as far as who she’d rather prefer. The pretty girl at the 188 maybe. Swank at the front desk seemed nice. The blushing redhead at the Mojave Outpost would have even been good, and might have matched right up with the whiskey and blood flavor of Benny’s lips.  
  
In the end, oh _hell,_ he’s still Benny. It’s still him mumbling nonsense under his breath and gasping whenever she moves her hips just right. She gets _something_ out of it at least, since sex is sex and she has to get her frustrations out somehow. She rides him like it actually means something, her pulse heavy in her ears and her temples. Her thoughts turn to all of her grievances against him, and her actions get a little more desperate.  
  
_For leaving me with two holes in my head in Goodsprings, crawling out of the dust like a half-dead radscorpion,_ she thinks first. Her fingers dig hard into his shoulders, sure to leave bruises provided she lets him live long enough for them to form.  
  
_For leading me on a chase through half the Mojave to find your sorry ass all cozied up in a fucking casino. And for leading me through a shithole like Primm and a Legion barbecue and a rocket facility run by a cult, you inconsiderate sack of shit!_ Her head goes down to his neck and she bites at the junction between his throat and his shoulder. She makes sure that she draws blood, and he arches right off the bed, gasping as she does it. And hell if she doesn’t relish in all that copper and iron, going right for the jugular.  
  
_For pulling me in to an absolute shitshow of a political situation instead of killing me properly,_ is the last grievance, although she’s sure there’s more to follow. Her hips roll hard, bucking against him and gasping hard through her teeth in a snarl. He twitches inside of her, enough for her to notice, and she doesn’t stop herself from one hand going right to his neck, pressing down on his trachea so that his next gasp and sigh is a strangled one.  
  
Naturally, he looks like he’s loving every second of it.  
  
_Duet_ is the next word that comes completely unbidden. His arms are around his waist and he moans and twitches against her like he’s totally at her mercy. If he lives, he might even try to brag and say he had the situation under control, that he had her moaning and squirming under him or something like that. Her retort would be something pretty sharp, not failing to mention how he was all but worshipping her while she gleefully deprived him of oxygen.  
  
When she lets go of his neck, he draws in a grateful, deep breath. His eyes are bright and feverish, and his thrusts are getting progressively more erratic. It hasn’t even been a full five minutes yet.  
  
Her jaw his still set, her teeth grit. He comes up to kiss her and she shoves him back down by the shoulders. “You don’t come unless I tell you to,” she says, and it’s as much of a warning as she can make without outright saying so.  
  
He nods, wordless, and it may be the first (possibly second) time that she’s found him at a complete loss like this.  
  
The word is a mantra as it hammers into her brain with each thrust that comes next. _Regret, regret, regret._ Her breath hitches somewhere deep in her chest, not making a full escape out of her lungs. Benny is reduced to an absolute mess underneath her, his hands scrambling to hold onto anything substantial. He holds onto her hips, her arms, and then the bedsheets and the pillowcase. Finally, she gets sick of him moving around so much and grasps his hands by the wrists above his head. The demand doesn’t need to be made aloud, but he follows it nonetheless. And he actually _whimpers._  
  
“Not yet,” she hisses when she can feel his hips shudder. “Not fucking _yet._ ”  
  
Another whimper. Damn if he doesn’t sound like a wild dog begging to be put out of its misery. _Not yet._  
  
Then, finally, she unseats herself and lifts her hips up so that he slides out of her. He cries out at this, but she’s still holding his hands above his head and there’s nothing he can do about it. “Now,” she finally says.  
  
He comes without having to touch himself or fuck her at all. Just the word alone is enough to unleash him somehow. It would be amazing on its own if Lizzie wasn’t more focused on his face, his eyes rolling back, sweat dripping from his forehead, mingling with the blood by his mouth. There’s already the thin violet line of a bruise forming under his bottom lip from her teeth.  
  
_Sweat rhymes with regret, doesn’t it?_  
  
She doesn’t get off, and honestly, she doesn’t want to. It’s this weird powerplay that she enjoys more than the sex itself. He’s still writhing under her hands, his face flushed and his muscles twitching while his dick softens and his stomach is streaked in translucent white strands.  
  
“Good,” she says as she lets him go. She means it, but not on his behalf.  
  
Slowly, his sense seems to come back at a slow crawl. His eyes open as she moves to the empty side of the bed, picking her panties up off the floor with her toes. She’s sure he’s staring at her again.  
  
“Damn,” he says, but now his voice is as soft as a whisper. “That was--”  
  
Lizzie rolls over, panties now hooked around her left ankle. One finger is on his lips, pressed down hard enough that he winces. “Save it,” she says. “You say something like _charlies_ again and you’re going to be sorry.”  
  
His eyebrows go up again, but he smiles against her finger. “Mkay,” he manages. He seems authentically alright with her orders.  
  
Once she’s at least somewhat satisfied that he’ll stay quiet, she moves back to where she can slide her panties up again. Really, she does want to leave. She wants to put her merc fatigues back on, deposit a 10mm bullet right between his eyes the way nature intended, and call it an evening. But that was never part of the plan. She’s learned about traps in a dozen different ways because of life in the Mojave, and they all take time. But the feeling of dampness between her legs is almost enough to make her book it out of there and right out the front door of the Tops.  
  
_Upset_ is a very applicable word right now.  
  
“Hey,” Benny says in a small, vulnerable voice. It almost makes her queasy. “You’re not leaving now, are ya?”  
  
Lizzie sighs through her nose and runs a hand through her hair before shaking her head. “Not just yet,” she replies.  
  
“Alright. I mean, you wore me out right good, girlie, and...” He trails off, and she turns to see him looking at the ceiling instead of her. That pinch between his brows is back. “I dunno. That was something else. Real ring-a-ding, ya know?”  
  
Lizzie lays back on the pillows and laughs. “Way to kill the mood.”  
  
“Nah, shooting you in the headcase was a mood killer, baby.” He grimaces a little and rests his hands on his bare chest. “I can’t even tell you how many times I had nightmares about all that business. Honestly, best thing you ever did was crawl out of that ditch. I mean, now that I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”  
  
She nudges him in the calf with her foot. “I bet you say that to everyone you shoot in the head.”  
  
“Only the good looking dames.”  
  
He might have muttered more, but it all becomes just noise after awhile. Benny rambled. He rambled to get out of situations, to get in them, to weave in and out as he pleased. He rambled before, during, and after sex. He rambled with a gun in his hand and when his gun was halfway across the room. The only time he didn’t ramble was when he was asleep, and honestly, that didn’t take very long. He might have asked her to hold him or something, but he also could have been right on that border between asleep and awake and possibly unaware of what he was saying.  
  
_Kismet._ Fate and predetermination and all that junk.  
  
_It’s kismet if you shoot him._  
  
_It’s kismet if you don’t._  
  
Lizzie frowns hard, watching his eyes move urgently beneath his eyelids as he dreamt. His chest moves slowly up and down. His fingers twitch.  
  
Finally, deliberately, she rolls over so that her back faces him, and she closes her eyes. _Regret._ That was something that would come later.  
  
Lizzie falls asleep, knowing full well that when she wakes up, Benny will be gone.

**Author's Note:**

> -Lizzie sings part of Bobby Darin's rendition of 'Mack the Knife'. It's awesome.  
> -(Pairing requests are a viable thing. It gives me something to do, anyway.)


End file.
